Lapis Philosophorum
by zebraFinch
Summary: The form of a man, the form of the Stone. An immortal life spanning over four hundred years with no end in sight. A man who yearns for normalcy and proof that a peaceful end is not impossible. Follow the story of Van Hohenheim, the Philosopher's Stone.
1. Prologue

_Lapis philosophorum lapis ruber lapis quantus  
sacrificum vis caputo felicitas  
_

_Debes sapio debes ibi multa miseria tua retro  
calamitatis habes saputo felicitas  
_

_Ubi es inpedis terra e tem pus anteactus  
sapies eo__quam erant cadeveris infinitatis._

**PROLOGUE:** **Hope**

The silence was almost deafening. Every now and then there was a small _dripdripdrip_ as beads of condensation fell from the ceiling and hit the floor, echoing eerily throughout the tunnel with no pattern.

He looked up at the grating in the roof, seeing no more movement. He was alone now.

Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he moved on. Despite the solemn surroundings, he oddly felt no hint of fear whatsoever. Perhaps it was the fact that he could not put this off for any longer, and perhaps he could finally be at peace.

At least, that's what he hoped. Many, many years ago, he had learned that hope can often end in folly and sadness. He was not being pessimistic, just realistic. Living in a fantasy world can only get a person so far, before reality strikes back with a vengence.

He had no plan, no expectations. Maybe a tiny plan, but that was supposed to be for "just in case." Fate always looked with sympathy upon those who were prepared.

Yet that was the thing, he honestly had no idea what would happen once he managed to see it face to face again. He preferred to think of his opposing force as "it"--the task ahead appeared much less daunting with minimalistic pronouns.

He became distracted from his internal thoughts as his surroundings began to change as he moved on. Odd pipes of various sizes were converging on the one point, narrowing the walking space within the underground tunnel. There was a low, constant whirring that emitted from the pipes, becoming louder as the tunnel narrowed. The noise slowly crescendoed into harsh clanging with intermittent hisses.

The sounds were not the thing he sensed that disturbed him. The other thing he sensed was more subtle, and sinister.

Alchemists [and Alkahetrists, respectively] were able to "feel"alchemy being performed, or where it was once applied. Alkahetrists were extremely connected in this way, as was a majority of the country of Xing, where they titled the sensation _chi._

Somehow, these pipes were transporting _chi_ to and from a central location; in very large amounts. The weight from the sensory overload of all this energy was muffling, and it was only getting heavier and more concentrated as he traveled onward.

This oppressive energy was a burden that was signature to the one he so _affectionately_ liked to call, the Little Man in the Flask.

He was almost there.

As if rewarding him for stumbling through the dark, a small, yellow light pierced the darkness that stretched ahead. It was a single, solitary light bulb that dangled from the ceiling. Illuminated behind it was a pair of heavy iron doors. The pipes thickened, spiraling through holes in the wall just wide enough to go through. The doors were ever so slightly cracked open, dim light spilling from within and casting shadows on the ground. Tiny pipes barely wider than an inch coiled through this opening, as if they were snakes that had been frozen in place as they tried to enter the room beyond.

The soft light streaming from the crack was inviting, patronizing. Even though he noticed the end of the tunnel, he was in no hurry to get to the end. He did not quicken his pace, he just purposely strode onward, one foot in front of the other.

Upon reaching the doors he stopped, his golden eyes locked onto the bit of room he could see through the crack in the open doors. Slowly, he reached for the spiral handle on one of the doors. The metal beneath his fingers was cool and smooth, as was the air he could now feel blowing softly on his face. The stale air.

He pulled open the door. As expected, a horrendous, constant creak screamed from the rusted hinges as the door opened. He stepped inside what he now realized was a giant room.

The cavern was expansive, the ceiling indistinguishable in the dark. The floor changed from the rough concrete in the tunnel to smooth white tile; the color alone was enough to provide some reflected illumination from the far-off solitary light source. Just like the corridor from before, pipes were strewn all about the room. They covered the floor, tens of hundreds of various sizes. The clanking and whirring was at its peak, constant and thrumming like a heartbeat. It was oddly soothing in its constant, andante four-four tempo, contrasting the situation.

He turned to his right, observing the stairs. They too were laden with tubes, all filing to a large chair that sat atop the stairs. It was a pinnacle, mimicking a throne. A throne where its king currently sat, facing the opposite direction.

He moved forward. As one foot struck the stairs, he was certain the king on the throne knew he was here. He continued up the stairs, navigating through the mess of tubing that consolidated into the chair. He stopped right behind the throne, staring down the blond head before him.

"You're alone, Number Twenty-three." Father's deep voice echoed in the sanctuary-like hall, mingling with the pipe clanking. "I expected the brothers to be with you."

Hohenheim stepped to his right, moving around the throne to face Father. "There's no need to bring a big group to punish one misbehaving child."

His counterpart was silent in response. Hohenheim yearned for a reply from the soul that had unwittingly antagonized him these hundreds of years, had been a hovering threat to him personally for so long, and plagued his guilt-filled immortal existence. He felt the numerous people that crowded his thoughts with theirs empathize and propel his newfound anger. Although he felt as if he could burst with hatred and rage backed by hundreds of thousands in the same position as he, he was felt calm and collected. His next statement was softs-poken and contained, peppered with light mockery.

"Eh?" he prodded, looking for any reaction, "My little friend from the flask?"

Eyes identical to his own in appearance, but not depth, locked on his gaze. The two embodiments of the Philosopher's Stone regarded each other. One's stare was full of confidence and severity.

The other's was filled with a glimmer of--shall he even think it--hope.

_I am a blissful fool..._

_

* * *

_

A/N: Once again I've taken on the rather daunting task of trying to do a full story, hopefully to completion, unlike some of my er...previous endeavors' endings. One thing this story has going for it is the fact that I have a basic outline for how I want the thing to turn out, and it just needs embellishment. My goal is to get to the end of the manga or Hohenheim's end, whichever comes first [hopefully it's the former...]. Either way, the manga's completion date is supposedly in June, with Chapter 108's release. I don't know how that will work out, we'll just wait and see.

I'll update this story quite frequently, for it is the only thing I'm working on at the moment writing-wise. My own fiction is at a sort of standstill right now, so hopefully this fan fiction will give my muse a boost.

Interesting factoid: The lyrics at the beginning are from the Full Metal Alchemist OST 1, from the song _Lapis Philosophorum, _and naturally the title is too. It is Latin for 'philosopher's stone,' thus an appropriate this story's depiction of Hohenheim's life.

The song is not mine, nor is the novel or are the characters from Full Metal Alchemist. They belong to their respected owners. I'm just borrowing some for a bit of fun and writing exercise ^_^


	2. Trials and Tribulations of Soap Scum

_"Quite an experience to live in fear, isn't it? That's what it is to be a slave."_

_-_Roy Batty, _Blade Runner_

A/N: This is a fair warning about the few curse words that appear briefly in this chapter, in case you're offended by that sort of thing. None are too severe and there are only about 4 or 5 scattered within this.

**CHAPTER 1: Trials and Tribulations of Soap Scum**

_**Xerxes**_

_**~1480 a.d.**_

"Up you get!"

The crackling voice was muffled by the door and the wall, thankfully. The boy stuffed his head beneath the pillow, hands pressed firmly to the section that covered his ears. The other three boys that shared the room with him seemed to be trying to ignore her too, for they did not stir from their mattresses either.

Unfortunately this was not enough, for the bang that came from the door slamming against the opposite wall was enough to awaken a dead man.

"C'mon, Master's decided to inspect the kitchen this mornin'!" The woman's coarse voice bled through the shield of pillow around his ears.

The pillow was suddenly yanked from his grasp, and was followed by a rough shake to his shoulder. "Get up, Twenty-three. You too, Nineteen!"

She shuffled her large form between the beds, forcing the other boys awake. It was Tammy, the head of the kitchen. She normally was the one that woke up the boys in the first place, for her extreme gusto and loudness was enough to stir even the most stubborn of teenagers.

"Fourteen and Seventeen ran off and got drunk in cahoots with Issac, and are outta commission this mornin'. So that means you boys are in charge of cleanin' the kitchen that they left a mess last night," Tammy belted out from the doorway. Some of the other boys groaned in dread. "Hey, don't blame me. Go talk to those two if you have a score to settle 'bout this. Now get to business!"

With that the door slammed behind her, shaking on its hinges. The boy, known to both himself and others only as Twenty-three, pushed himself to a seated position, squinting his eyes in the sudden light from the uncovered window. The other boys were standing and getting dressed, slowly but surely. Twenty-three did as well.

"Dishes?" Nineteen said hurridly as he put on his shirt, sprinting toward the doorway. His hand hovered over the knob. "One, two, three; NOT ME!" With that, he bolted from the room, the door swinging shut behind him.

Twenty-three and the remaining boys all stared at each other for a few seconds, their actions freeze-framed.

A chorus of "NOT ME!" began, the boys yanking on their clothes and bursting from the room. Twenty-three sprinted toward the door as well. The air was suddenly yanked from him as the much older, larger, and fatter Eighteen grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back.

He landed hard on his bottom, tumbling backwards.

"Twenty-three's last!" the older boy called out in a manner that suggested immaturity, waddling down the hallway. "He's doing the dishes!"

Twenty-three grimaced, getting up slowly. He closed his eyes for a moment, visualizing the mountain of dishes with disgusting, twelve-hours-old food crusted on them. He shuddered, repulsed by the thought of what was to come.

He left the room where he slept and ascended the basement stairs, his pace significantly slower than the boisterous gait he normally took. He entered the breezeway that separated the back of the main house from the slave quarters. The desert sun was already assaulting, but the constant breeze that flowed through the oasis in a valley that was Xerxes provided welcomed relief from the heat.

Twenty-three reached for the back door to the kitchen, when he was thrown back by it suddenly opening. Tammy stood in the frame, hands on her hips.

"Quit standing around, Twenty-three," she scolded, reaching forward and grabbing a fistful of his hair, pulling him forward.

"Ow ow ow ow!"

She released him once they had gotten inside. "If you're goin' to keep your hair long, I'm gonna use it to my advantage. Now get to work, Master's gonna be here in thirty minutes, so you'd best be gettin' your butt into gear."

"Yes, ma'am," he growled between clenched teeth, massaging the now sore spot on his scalp. He desired to retaliate, but refrained, remembering that being on Tammy's bad side was an awful predicament he would rather not be in. He could not imagine what the strict kitchen lady had in store for a young teen with a smart-ass mouth. The rebuttal probably was worse than the soap she forced them to consume when she caught the boys cursing.

His companions were all busy, one mopping the floor, one wiping countertops and tables, and another organizing the food, ingredients, and spices strewn about the kitchen. Very hesitantly, Twenty-three's eyes wandered to the large tub beside the counter and on the floor that contained the dishes.

His upper lip wrinkled in distaste. The state of the dishes was painfully accurate to his imagination, possibly moreso. The flatware and utensils were the results of last nights meals; not just the master's family, but all the slaves as well--all twenty-five of them.

He took a deep breath and came to stand beside the tub. Of course, there were no gloves to be seen. He briefly analyzed the pile of dishes, figuring out how to approach the mountain without toppling it over and causing even more of a mess. Thankful that he did not eat breakfast this morning, he plunged his hands into the disgustingly murky dishwater, choosing first to approach the pyramid of cups in the left corner of the tub. He grabbed the grey bar of soap and the stiff rag that probably needed a wash of its own off the adjacent counter and began to scrub at the cups and dishes.

Old food caked the plates, requiring more effort to scrape off. The sour smell of milk wafted from the leftover liquid that rimmed the bottom of some of the cups. The boy suppressed his gag reflex, breathing through his mouth instead of his nostrils. Twenty-three despised milk, and sour milk was even worse. He quickly poured the offending milk out and washed out the cups, using the water pump attached to the wall behind the tub to rinse the glass out.

Xerxes was the only country within the East that had internal water pipes, making life much more convenient for its residents. Xerxes was known for its many innovations, in realms ranging from alchemy to zoology. Twenty-three and his fellow uneducated took these luxuries for granted, too frightened to imagine their already harsh lives without the technology.

As Twenty-three removed and washed the remaining cup, the large pile of dishes started to shift to the side. A soup ladle, which had remained perfectly balanced on the precipice of the pile up until this time, clattered to the ground, getting his attention.

"Ah, crap!" He jumped to his feet and leaped to the opposite side. At least, he _tried_ to; he slipped on the soapy water that puddled around the tub of dishes, colliding with the counter and falling on his back.

Eighteen let out a chuckle as he looked up from where he was cleaning the counter. "Need some help, Grace? Is washing the dishes too much for a little c--ksucker like you?"

Twenty-three glared at him as he righted the pile. He broke off a small piece of soap and chunked it at him, hitting the other squarely in the forehead.

"Eat that, ass."

Twenty-three was mildly surprised that Tammy wasn't whooshing over him right now, a bar of soap in her hand to stuff in his mouth. Her punishments actually did very little to curb his and Eighteen's nasty habit of cursing--especially to each other. They both shared a certain instinctual animosity. Perhaps they were both so alike in their mutually headstrong nature that it was destined for them to butt heads.

Eighteen was the oldest of the younger slaves, at twenty years. The reason he, Twenty-three, and the other boys were given numbers instead of actual names to go by was because they were all considered temporary slaves. It was expected that in some point of their life they would be either traded or sold and leave the household. It was a tradition to keep such slaves nameless until they found a permanent home. The reason that most of them did not have names in the first place was due to them being orphans or turned over to slave traders.

Twenty-three once questioned the maid of the first owners he had about his family. She explained that his mother died in childbirth, and his father owed a great debt to the family Twenty-three used to be owned by. When he was very little, his father gave him to service of the family in payment for the extreme debt. Of course he had passed through numerous owners since then, five to be precise. Often in Xerxes, slaves were considered to be ways of consolidating contracts or money owed.

Twenty-three was never offended by the thought of his father giving him away. His way of dealing with the issue was to not dwell on it. The other boys' situations were most likely similar to his own, causing them to form bonds sometimes and feel a certain bond of brotherhood; even if they picked on each other like Eighteen and Twenty-three, they still felt a certain loyalty to each other.

Suddenly and drowning out Eighteen's likely foul comeback, the door to the kitchen burst open. The kitchen staff spilled into the room. Surprisingly, they were mostly silent as they filed in, faces set. They all came and stood around the perimeter of the room, hands by their sides, as if waiting for something.

_The master is here!_

Twenty-three began to vigorously scrub at the plates, feeling more hopeless with each passing second. There were at least fifteen or so more dishes and utensils that needed cleaning. The tub also needed refilling, for the water was now too grey and cloudy to see through.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up into the face of Nineteen, whose eyes were wide with worry.

"C'mon, stand up!" he whispered as he grabbed Twenty-three's upper arm and pulled upward.

Twenty-three wrung out the dirty washrag and hurridly stood up, clasping his hands behind his back.

The kitchen door opened again, more slowly this time. Three men stood in the doorway. The one in front was bald, regally dressed, and easily recognizable.

Nicholas Flamel, the king's royal vizier and master of the house.

Twenty-three rarely interacted with Flamel or any of his personal staff. Having only lived in the house for five months, this was the first time he had actually seen the man for more than a brief second. The first thing he noticed were the shrewed, black, critical eyes of the master. They quickly darted around the room, taking in everything. His mouth was set in a thin line, his lips pale and barely visible. His arms were folded in front of his chest, permanently giving off a commanding and aggressive persona.

He slowly began to walk around the room, his two accompaniments following closely behind. One was a guard, the other, a man with wispy hair and an abnormally large nose, carried a small board with paper and a writing charcoal--an enumerator. He and Flamel began at the side of the room opposite Twenty-three. The enumerator busied himself with opening the drawers and cabinets, periodically jotting down things on the paper. The master continued to slowly circle the room, sometimes exchanging a few words with various members of the kitchen staff.

Sweat started to bead on Twenty-three's brow as Flamel rounded the corner, coming to their side. Finally he was within feet of him and his companions.

The master peered at them with slight surprise. "Aren't you all the boys on the janitorial staff? What are you doing in the kitchen." He turned a condescending eye toward Tammy.

"Fourteen and Seventeen have the stomach flu," she blurted out. She nervously fiddled with the corner of her apron.

Twenty-three's stomach clenched. He glared incredulously at the woman, spotting the obvious lie. Nicholas Flamel was a smart man, from what Twenty-three had learned. He should obviously notice Tammy was lying through her teeth. She was now staring at her shoes, making eye contact with no one. If the master knew the other slaves were here because the normal staff had a hangover, he would probably punish Tammy for being negligent in her management of the people below her.

The master nodded at her remark. "Issac also contracted the stomach flu. Make sure you all take extra precautions in preparing the food--I don't want all my staff out of commission because of uncontrollable vomiting." He added on the last statement with a cynical air.

Twenty-three was appalled that his master actually agreed with the fibbing woman.

He then stopped right in front of Twenty-three. Twenty-three cast his eyes down, making sure that he was standing in front of the halfway full tub of dishes. He locked his gaze on Flamel's sandles, numbing his emotions and preparing himself for condescending words, trying to not feel angry in response. .

"You must be the new one we bought a few months ago," the Master observed.

The enumerator crept up behind him, reaching over Nineteen's head to grab one of the glasses Twenty-three had previously washed. In his hands he held one of the silver cups that normally adorned the fancy dining hall table. He peered closely at it, the tip of his huge nose threatening to touch the surface.

To Twenty-three's disdain, he chucked the cup into the murky tub behind him.

"None of these dishes are clean," he snapped at the boy, leaning over to get more of the washed dishes. "You can still see bits of scum all over them."

He thrust a silver spoon in front of Twenty-three's face for emphasis. He looked for bits of food on them, but could find none. All he could see was what looked like droplets of drying water on it.

"What do you mean?"

The enumerator roughly yanked up Twenty-three's hand, forcing the spoon into it. "Feel that? Feel how slimy it is? That's from the water and soap not being clean, and from you not scrubbing enough or using the proper sponge. It's supposed to be shin and reflect because it's silver. I cannot believe a fifteen year old slave has no idea how to properly do dishes."

Whether or not tirade was aimed toward anyone or was rhetorical, Twenty-three didn't know. He made no reply, just bit back his instinctual desire to say something harsh and cheeky about the man's nose in retaliation for the humiliation he was now experiencing. Every slave in the room was now paying attention to him, some looking at him with pity, others with morbid satisfaction.

If Twenty-three was one of them, he would have probably looked down on another person in his position too. Bad workers meant more work for everyone. As always, most slaves lived by the statement "_so long as it isn't me._"

There was no reason for Twenty-three to defend himself. It was impossible to say he was covering for others' mistakes, since Tammy prevented that to save her own skin.

He glanced at Flamel, who had by now stopped standing in front of him and was rummaging through a drawer. The master seemed fine to have his underling scold Twenty-three, rather than doing it himself. He looked to his right at Nineteen, Eighteen, and the two other boys. They all stared at him with the same fearful expression, offering no comfort. They were probably scared that his mistakes would cause them to be berated as well.

The irate man before him went on and on, making sure not to leave out any details as to how badly Twenty-three was at a menial task such as this. His nasally voice was at an annoying pitch, feverishly increasing in shrillness as he continued to lecture.

_Don't say anything...don't say anything...He's just an ignorant old coot that doesn't know shit. _

Twenty-three constantly had to remind himself not to snap back, as was his normal response to anyone scolding him. He was biting his tongue so hard now that he thought he tasted blood. Refraining from pointing out error in authority figures was something Twenty-three had to learn. Even though he had been a slave for most of his life, he lacked a humble nature when he felt he was right and others were in the wrong.

The enumerator dumped the remaining dishes back into the tub. "Clean those. Also, you'll be the only one cleaning the kitchen tonight. Give those who do their work a break, while you learn how to properly clean dishes. Even though the normal dishwasher is sick, you should be able to pick up the pace and fill in for him. In this house, all slaves are expected to help finish others' works if they are unable to do so."

With that, the enumerator furiously scribbled down a few final words on his paper, turned about on his heel, and stormed out of the room.

Flamel stopped searching through the drawer and came back to stand in front of Twenty-three. "Soren is correct, if you're given a job to do for someone, don't do it with minimal effort." His voice carried threat and severity as he stared down the slave. He bent over and placed what Twenty-three now saw was a sponge on the edge of the dish tub.

"This should be better than that old rag--I think that's half your problem right there. The array on it should help lift off the scum, get someone to show you how to use it. If you do not efficiently do your extra duties tonight, you can be assured that your punishment tomorrow will be much harsher, Twenty-three."

The master turned and swiftly walked out of the room, the door shutting behind them. Twenty-three still felt many pairs of eyes locked upon him.

There was silence for a brief moment, shortly followed by and eruption of sound as the kitchen staff abruptly began going about their duties of making the morning's breakfast. All were bustling around, their efforts increased due to the inspection.

Twenty-three slowly dragged the heavy washtub on the ground to the door to dump the water outside. Nineteen and Eighteen came to his side, assisting him in bringing it to the door.

"Don't you dare help him!" Tammy's raspy voice yelled over the clangs in the kitchen. She came over to them. "Y'all are done with your part in the kitchen. Get your breakfast, and then do your normal morning tasks. Then come back after lunch to help clean the kitchen again. For doin' more than your share of work, you'll each get one coin."

She cast a severe gaze at Twenty-three. "No coin for you today. I'll probably get chewed out by Soren later, thanks to you. Be thankful I'm kind enough to not give you my own punishment."

Bribery outweighed camaraderie, it seemed. His companions immediately let go of the tub and quickly distanced themselves from him, as if he were a plague-carrier. The water sloshed out of the tub and onto his legs as it hit the floor, soaking his feet.

Twenty-three muttered a few inaudible choice curses beneath his breath as he dragged it the rest of the way to the door, heaving it outside. His limbs were almost shaking with anger at the unfairness of it all. It seemed as if God dealt him a bad hand this day.

As he emptied the water and dragged the tub back inside, he passed by Eighteen and Nineteen. Both were walking by, a piece of bread in one hand and a cup of water in the other. Each boy nudged him as they passed by, slipping a chunk of bread into his hands. Twenty-three quickly pocketed the food, relieved that he would miss his breakfast due to this mess.

He refilled the tub and began to clean the dishes once again, including the cups and glasses Soren had so ceremoniously scolded him over. This time he attacked the task with the sponge. There was marginal improvement in cleaning the glasses, but not as much as he expected. Twenty-three furiously began to scrub at the silver cup. Within a couple hundred of rapid scrubs, it finally began to shine and reflect its surroundings.

He jumped in the air as more dishes cascaded into the tub of water, splashing even more soapy water on Twenty-three. He snapped his head up to see who had dumped even more dishes upon his already mountainous pile, only to see nobody there.

Twenty-three groaned loudly in frustration. This was going to be a long morning.

_discidium _

An hour later, the kitchen staff was beginning to slowly trickle out one by one, with breakfast now coming to an end. Of course, each person that left gave their dish in addition to the others that Twenty-three had to wash.

He was the last to leave, trudging out when the shadows were 2 marks away from the sun. His hands were wrinkled from the constant soaking in soapy, murky water that he endured for hours. The tips of his fingers reminded him strongly of raisins.

He reached into his pocket and ripped off a piece of bread, popping it into his mouth. It was slightly hard and stale, but still good. He walked slowly around the back of the main house, to do his normal morning task of cleaning the Master's "office." Twenty-three preferred to think of it as a lab, with all the weird alchemical experiments he did in there.

As he rounded the back part of the manor that faced the stables, a loud bang caught his attention. He halted for a moment, looking at the stables to see what had caused the noise. He was about to attribute the bang to one of the horses, but a low human cry reached him. He broke into a jog, heading toward the stables.

Some stalls were being restructured and two more added, so there was a possibility materials or equipment could have fallen on someone working on it.

As he passed through the entrance, he could see a crowd already gathering around a strewn pile of wooden equipment. Slaves and contracted workers tightened in a group, chattering loudly amongst one another.

Twenty-three tapped one on the shoulder. "What's going on?"

"It's Jacob, the guy overseeing the whole thing," the man said, his words quick and out of breath. "The wagon in front of him collapsed and the junk fell out on top of him."

Twenty-three craned his neck to see over the men's shoulders, but was pulled back by a rough hand.

"Quickly! Move out of the way. Stop crowding him!"

Two servents pushed their way through, followed by Nicholas Flamel. The circle around the debris quickly dissipated, allowing the group through. Twenty-three could see Jacob's head and upper torso sticking out from beneath a broad piece of wood. The man's face was in a tight grimace, blood slowly trickling from beneath his hairline near his temple.

The servants rushed forward, removing the pile from on top of him. On a gathered impulsed, Twenty-three went forward with everyone else and began to assist in getting the equipment and materials off of him.

The pile quickly shrinked, until finally part of Jacob's body was free.

"No major injuries," Flamel said, bending over to examine him closer. The man was still biting his lip in agony.

"My...leg..."

Twenty-three moved to the man's other side to his left leg, which was still under some debris.

As he removed a broad wooden board from near the bottom, he felt something warm and sticky on his hand. He dropped the board immediately, looking at his hand. His palm was covered with a bright red substance.

_Blood_!

He dropped down, throwing bits off the pile rapidly until he caught a glimpse of pink skin. He carefully removed the rest of the stuff on top.

It was the man's leg. His left limb jutted out at an odd angle, bleeding profusely from the thigh. Twenty-three went to Jacob's head and quickly removed his head-scarf, returning to the wound and pressing the fabric to quell the flow of blood.

"Master!" he called. "His leg is pretty messed up."

Flamel rushed to Twenty-three's side, brushing him away. He pried at the wounds, resulting in a soft cry of pain from the man. He then reached the pocket of his outer robe, withdrawing something from it. He opened his palm, revealing five smooth, black stones.

Twenty-three watched, bewildered as his master removed the scarf he had put on the wound earlier. Flamel carefully laid the five obsidian stones in a perfect circle around the gash, taking care to steady the man's leg from quivering. Using the tip of his finger, he dipped it into the red liquid now pooling by his knee.

Twenty-three observed with fascination as Flamel used the man's blood to draw out an array of a circle and lines connecting the stones directly on the man's skin. He then placed his hands on opposite sides of the transmutation circle.

Twenty-three suddenly felt a bizarre sensation, almost as if he could "taste" static in the air. At the moment he felt the surplus in energy, there was a flash of blinding blue, followed by the sharp smell of electricity burning the ozone.

"I have sealed closed the wound to stall the bleeding, seal the vein, and start up the coagulation process," informed the master to Jacob, "but you need medical attention as soon as possible. Help me get him up, Twenty-three. Let's get him to the living quarters."

Twenty-three rushed forward, gripping the man's upper arm and pulling him gently to a standing position. Flamel supported him on the other shoulder and they turned, walking toward the slave housing part of the property.

They had to practically drag the man; he was still dazed from the accident and his left leg useless. There was silence between them as they carefully brought Jacob to the small medical room on the lower floor. Twenty-three helped lower him to the bed as two people came to attend to Jacob's injuries.

He awkwardly stood in the room for a moment, not knowing if he should leave or go. After a brief word with the people giving medical attention to Jacob, Flamel turned and beckoned to Twenty-three to leave. He turned and immediately left, Flamel closely following and shutting the door behind him. He turned and started to go down the other hallway that would take him back outside.

"Outside earlier, that was alchemy." Twenty-three emphasized it more as a statement than a question, aimed at Flamel's retreating back

The master paused for a moment in his walking. "Yes. And?"

Twenty-three shrugged. "Nothing. Just felt something weird going on at the same time you did it."

Flamel turned around and looked at Twenty-three. His eyes were narrowed, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. It seemed as the master was studying him, looking for something...

"'_Weird_.'" he repeated, nonplussed.

"Kind of like a spark that--"

"Shouldn't you be taking full advantage of your break?" the master interrupted abruptly as turned back around and continued down the hallway. His voice carried a severe overtone. "You have a full workload tonight," he added as he walked off, leaving behind a befuddled Twenty-three.

Twenty-three continued down the other hall and up the stairs to his room, lamenting over being reminded of his horrendous after-dinner responsibilities. He also pondered over the master's showcase of alchemical talents not too long ago, not able to forget the odd sensation and the energy that seemed to flow from the process.

He decided to push his curiosity to the back of his mind, not really dwelling on the fact anymore since there was no possible way for him to understand alchemy, let alone find someone to teach him more than the simple cleaning array.

But perhaps in the future, he may find out more. Twenty-three concluded it was best to forgo that interest now.

For a brief moment he wondered if it would make things easier.

* * *

A/N: Kind of longer than I expected, but whatev. I see this story is getting views, and I would really appreciate reviews, pwetty pwease... I thrive on them. It helps me figure out what I'm doing right and wrong, and point out good things and errors within my work.

As for why I used the figure Nicholas Flamel? Well obviously he's not the real person, just inspired from him for obvious reasons, as was Hohenheim partially from the astronomer/alchemist/jack of many trades Parcelus. Ed, Al, and Izumi both sport the "Flamel Symbol" so I thought it was safe to conclude he was a person of significance to alchemy in the FMA-world in some fashion.

Thanks for reading, expect another chapter soon!

FMA and its characters aren't mine. The quote at the beginning isn't mine either, it's the wonderful movie _Blade Runner_ as credited.

Also, Foo Fighters are good for the soul, and the muse.


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